row dyah too; ev'y chance he
git he tunned Miss Charlotte--'petchel motion, right hand across, an'
cauliflower, an' croquette--dee croquette plenty o' urrs, but I notice
dee ain' nuver fail to tun one nurr, an' ev'y tun he gin she wrappin'
de chain roun'him. Once when dee wuz 'prominadin-all' down we all's
een o' de hall, as he tunned her somebody step on her dress an' to' it.
I heah de screech o' de silk, an' Nancy say, 'O Lord!' den she say,
'Nem mine! now I'll git it!' an' dee stop for a minute for Marse George
to pin 't up, while turrers went on, an' Marse George wuz down on he
knee, an' she look down on him mighty sweet out her eyes, an' say, 'Hit
don' meck no difference,' an' he glance up an' cotch her eye, an', jes
'dout a wud, he tyah a gret piece right out de silk an' slipt it in he
bosom, an' when he got up, he say, right low, lookin' in her eyes real
deep, 'I gwine wyah dis at my weddin',' an' she jes look sweet as
candy; an' ef Nancy ever wyah dat frock I ain' see it.

"Den presney dee wuz talkin' 'bout stoppin'. De ole Cun'l say hit time
to have prars, an' dee wuz beggin' him to wait a leetle while; an' Jack
Forester lay he fiddle down nigh Marse George, an' he picked 't up an'
drawed de bow 'cross it jes to try it, an' den jes projickin' he struck
dat chune 'bout 'You'll ermember me.' He hadn' mo'n tech de string
when you couldn' heah a pin drap. Marse George he warn noticin', an'
he jes lay he face on de fiddle, wid he eyes sort o' half shet, an'
drawed her out like he'd do some nights at home in dee moonlight on de
gret porch, tell on a sudden he looked up an' cotch Miss Charlotte eye
leanin' for'ards so earnest, an' all on 'em list'nin', an' he stopt,
an' dee all clapt dee hands, an' he sudney drapt into a jig. Jack
Forester ain' had to play no mo' dat night. Even de ole Cun'l ketched
de fever, an' he stept out in de flo' in he long-tail coat an' high
collar, an' knocked 'em off de 'Snowbud on de Ash-bank,' an' 'Chicken
in de Bread-tray,' right natchel.

"Oh, he could jes plank 'em down!

"Oh, dat wuz a Christmas like you been read 'bout! An' twuz hard to
tell which gittin cotch most, Marse George or me; 'cause dat nigger she
jes as confusin' as Miss Charlotte. An' she sutney wuz sp'ilt dem
days; ev'y nigger on dat place got he eye on her, an' she jes az
oudacious an' aggravatin as jes womens kin be.

"Dees monsus 'ceivin critters, womens is, jes as onreliable as de
hind-leg of a mule; a man